


Unvarnished Truth

by thevaticancameo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, Eventual Smut, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-02-05 10:15:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1814926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thevaticancameo/pseuds/thevaticancameo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set one year after The Reichenbach Fall. Sherlock has spent his year of absence from the world trying to demolish the network of James Moriarty. But he also spends it becoming addicted to Valium and finding himself lucky to be alive. Irene Adler has relocated and is less than pleased to get a text message from the man she thought dead, and even more angered when he shows up uninvited. This is mostly Irene-centric, but written in 3rd person.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Not Dead

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at a multichaptered fic, so I hope that it's enjoyable. I'd also like to thank ireneglader from tumblr for her continuous support and snapchats to keep me motivated. x

She was sitting on her couch the night the text came. Ironically, it has been the same couch where the two of them had met; though the location had changed. Amsterdam is where she lived now. It was probably as close as Irene could get to London without getting killed. She had just taken off her heels, trying to drown her latest sorrows in a glass of pinot noir. **A** glass, she told herself. She had lied. Just like she had lied when she told Kate that she wasn’t in love with Sherlock Holmes, and just like she had told herself that Kate was coming back. She had downed four by the time her phone vibrated on the counter above the fireplace. Not all the expensive, quality alcohol in the world could’ve prepared her for the words her eyes so desperately scanned. It came from a blocked number, but she didn’t need to know it; for the sender’s message gave that away:  


_I’m not dead. Let’s have dinner. SH_  


A fifth glass was in her hand before, but now it wasn’t. It had fallen victim to gravity, and was now shards of glass on the ground and a puddle of liquid. The sound of the shattering echoed throughout the empty room, a not so friendly reminder to how alone she had been. She followed the glass, her knees giving way to the emotion she had been hit with. Blunt force trauma to the heart.  


She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She wiped at her eyes, but nothing was there.  


It seemed that only yesterday, she had heard from a client about the suicide of the great Sherlock Holmes. It has been nearly a year ago. The first six months were the toughest. She canceled and refused to book any sessions for the duration of that time. Instead, she shut herself down. Told herself many lies in order to keep in touch with the truth: Sherlock Holmes was dead, and it felt like she was as well. After six months of staring out windows, wishing that she could reciprocate the favor he did her in Karachi, she realized that there was nothing she could do about it. She began accepting clients once more, and of course-even though the dominatrix had been off the grid for months-the clients came. _‘In more than one way,’_ she noted, smirking to herself. The following six months had been easier, with her being back to work in Amsterdam. Sherlock Holmes had turned into nothing more than a name, as did Jim Moriarty, and Kate. At least, that’s what she told herself.  


Irene Adler now very much regretted the amount of wine she drank. Or at least regretted that she didn’t have a higher tolerance to intoxicants. In part, her regret stemmed from the miserable feeling in her stomach. Although, she knew deep down that it wasn’t the bottle of wine she nearly emptied that put it there. But most of her remorse was from the fact that she didn’t have control over what would happen next.  


She opened her mouth, and this time, something came out.  


One might’ve called it a soft scream or a loud sob, if one was there to hear it. She ran her fingers through her hair, keeping them there as inhuman noises escaped from her throat, to her mouth, out of her lips, and into the open. She could feel them, the sounds she was making, throughout her body until they left. It hurt her to keep silent; they punched and kicked her insides, begging to be let out. And for the first time, she was the one obeying. For a good two and a half minutes, she did nothing but scream into space. Anger propelled this, gave her voice the energy to carry out what needed to be done. When she found her throat to be on fire, her eyes took over. They began to water against her will. The mascara turned her tears into watered down ink as they trickled down her face. Her breath began to hitch, becoming caught in her lungs every few seconds, causing the dreaded _huff-huh-huff_ pattern that occurs when weeping. She was ashamed, at this hideous display of herself. She was a crying, drunk, lonely woman on the floor of her own empty home. Her occupation was control, and she currently didn’t even have a grip on herself. Irene had then remembered what had caused her to be in the state she was in, and stood up. She was careful to avoid the glass, as she couldn’t handle any more injuries tonight. She read the text again, it hadn’t changed from the first time she did. Not that she expected it to, but she wanted to make sure it was real, and truly did exist and that four and half glasses of wine hadn’t been hallucinogenic. She unlocked her phone, hadn’t even bothered to change the screen on the near exact replica of her old mobile. But Irene did change the password. Once, the lock could be opened with four letters, an S, an H, an E, and an R. That was no longer the case, and four different letters replaced the former. A D, an E, an A, and another D. Whether this was to remind herself of her current status to the world or an allusion to a metaphorical skeleton in her closet that had just came back to life, Irene didn’t know. She typed them in, each letter more painful than the last, and sent back to him the only response that would keep her _and him contained:_  


**And why would I want to do that?**  


Almost immediately after Irene sent her message, she received one back:  


_Might be hungry. SH_  


 _‘Leave it to him to be such a smartass at a time like this,’_ she rolled her eyes, releasing an audible sigh as testament to the thought. The tears that had once been downpour had almost ceased entirely, save for the single one currently rolling down her cheek.  


**I’m not.**  


_Good. I’m not either. SH_  


“Damn him,” she said out loud this time, surprised that she hadn’t misspelled or made any sort of mistake yet. He would sense it immediately, and she wasn’t going to let that happen. She willed herself to concentrate, focus on the tiny letters that now seemed even tinier to her on the buttons.  


**What are you doing Sherlock? What do you want?**  


_To talk. SH_  


**I think it’s a little late for that, Mr Holmes.**  


_But it’s only 10:30.SH_  


**Fuck you, Sherlock.**  


At this point inebriation had convinced her that decency towards Sherlock Holmes was not only unnecessary, but too much effort and much too tiring. And to be honest, it felt good being indecent to him.  


_You’d like to, wouldn’t you? SH_  


She tossed her phone over the couch and buried her face in her hands. Irene didn’t need to be dealing with this sober, much less drunk. Her phone vibrated from the other side of the room and she raised her head only to sigh. Leaving the message unopened would be harder than reading it, she decided.  


_That was uncalled for, I’m sorry. SH_  


**Since when do you apologise? Or even acknowledge that a single offensive thing comes out of your mouth?**  


_Since I need to talk. To you. SH_  


**Why?**  


_Does it even matter to you? You get to talk with me, something I’m sure you've dreamed about since we last met. SH_  


**Such a high pedestal we hold ourselves upon, Mr Holmes.**  


**That means further a fall.**  


She couldn’t resist, and besides, he deserved it. It took longer to get a message back this time.  


_Fuck you. SH_  


It appeared that he held the same sentiments, _or lack thereof._ A sense of victory came over her, that the great Sherlock Holmes had stooped her level. She thought he would never, but he surprised her and did. There’s a certain sensation experienced when you strike someone and another when you realize that you hit a nerve. Currently, Irene Adler relished in the pleasure of the latter. _‘Something must be wrong, then’,_ she thought. _‘He’s letting his vocabulary corrode. He would never allow belittlement of himself. ‘_ She was quick to type back an answer, almost too quick. But she couldn’t help herself, truly.  


**You’d like to, wouldn’t you?**  


She grinned, her smile stretched from ear to ear when the ‘send’ button was pressed. She was back in control, just the way she liked it.  


_I’ll be to your place in approximately 20 minutes. SH_  


**And what makes you think I’ll be here waiting for you?**  


Just then, she heard the doorbell buzz.  


 _‘Pretentious asshole,’_ she rolled her eyes. Immediately, her mistake was realized. She used ‘here,’ not ‘there,’ telling him that she was at her home. Cursing the alcohol for her error-because she was sure she wouldn’t’ve made the mistake sober-Irene stayed put for a few minutes before deciding that she couldn’t ignore him forever, as much as she wanted to. Or at least, that’s what she told herself.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I haven't updated this in forever, even though I've had the draft for awhile. I figured I'd post the last chapter I wrote, and I'm not sure if I'll continue this one.

Irene slipped on a pair of shoes, the ones she had worn today while giving a certain CEO the best orgasm of his exceptionally dull life via riding crop and a reason to come back in a month. Another pair of Louboutins, though these were red leather to match the color of her lips that were stained with alcohol and lipstick residue. She pulled the loose peignoir tighter, tying the waist that had been open before. Not that it mattered, he had seen her naked before. She had made sure of that. Maybe with the thin lace covering her, he wouldn’t notice that she was ten pounds thinner and her skin no longer possessed the smooth characteristic of milk but the frailty of ancient parchment. That was a lie, she knew it, and lying was a bad habit Irene Adler had no plans to break. He noticed everything, and she hated him for it.

She took her time down the stairs, and made her way to the door with more spring in her step than she would care to admit. But Irene didn’t even check the monitor. Some sort of godforsaken magnetic-like attraction that she blamed on the alcohol forced her hand to the lock and Irene opened the door. She left the security chain intact, however, because that was one form of protection Sherlock Holmes couldn’t break unless he was armed with a bolt cutter. With the two and half inches of sight she had outside the flat, Irene could see the whole silhouette of his profile standing on the edge of her steps. He was thinner, too, she noticed. He had a cigarette in between two fingers that was almost gone, and she began to wonder how long he had been there. In his own little world, she supposed, he hadn’t realized that she had opened the door. Irene cleared her throat, announcing herself.

He turned to face her, surprisingly calm as anything. Putting the cigarette to his lips, he took a long drag, and exhaled after holding it in a few seconds longer than he usually did. Snuffing the cigarette out on a stone pillar, Sherlock took a step closer to the door. They were now face to face. He was paler now, and he had bags under his eyes that were the color of bruises. She sensed it immediately, even through all the layers of alcohol that were clouding her mind: he was using again. She didn’t even have to see the pinpoint dots in the crooks of his elbows

“Irene,” he said, a solemn yet polite greeting. He used her name. Not Miss Adler, her counterpart euphemism to his Mister Holmes. But Irene. He had used it over text, of course, but this is the first time he had spoken it. If she were a slave to the sentimental, she would’ve smiled. But she wasn’t, and their situation didn’t call for anything short of stoicism.

“Mister Holmes.” She withdrew from the connection he was trying to form. Decided it would maintain a distance between them that she felt they or she needed, and she was glad that at least that one rational thought broke through the alcohol-fueled haze. Maybe emotion is stronger than any sort of disabling substance. She would hate to think so, as would he.

“I need to talk to you.” His voice sounded emptier than it had before, the fire he had once spoken with had been put out just like his cigarette. Now it lacked something. Reason, Irene guessed. He sounded somewhat distant and far away. His tone was still garnished with the ice of a winter storm, any warmth virtually undetectable.

“So you’ve said.” Cooperation wasn’t her strong suite to begin with, but she wasn’t going to make this easier for him. Giving him a difficult time would be easier on her. A set amount of control had been established the second they had met and right now Irene was determined to make it all hers. 

“Please open the door, Irene.” Sherlock’s voice was calm even through nearly clenched teeth, but she could tell he was suppressing something with the way he sounded strained.

“But it is open,” She pressed, more control going to her, a vision of water being poured into her glass from his.

He closed his eyes, taking a heavy breath. Dramatic, the man was, as she had remembered. “All the way, Miss Adler,” His caustic tone returned with the formality, and something was now shining in his eyes once he opened them again.

“Why should I?” She was going to fight it all the way. Her head was tilted to the side and her eyebrows were raised in defiant faux innocence. “We can talk right here. This chain,” she casually ran her index finger along the length of it, “is doing nothing to prevent that.”

Sherlock placed a hand on his side, the other running through his hair as he stepped even closer to the door. “Just open the damn door, woman!” His voice was more of a hushed shout now.

Irene shut it, slammed it, in his face. She turned her back to it, leaning against the door with closed eyes in contemplation. This was what she had wanted. Ever since she had heard of his death, nightmares of Karachi had plagued her. They were often too realistic to bear and she usually woke up screaming. They always ended the same, too. She would wait to hear the sound she put on his phone, and wait, but the moan never came. The cold blade would graze the standing hairs on the back of her neck and she would awake. Because he had been taken out of life, he was also removed from her dreams. 

And now, just as he did that night in the desert, he came. She could tell that he was still there, in part because she knew he wouldn’t give up so easily, and because she could almost feel him doing the same on the other side. Or maybe it was the heavy feeling that four and a half glasses of pinot noir provided. If Irene were to look on the monitor now, she would’ve been right. They were back to back with only two inches of wood separating them. 

Sighing, she pried her eyes open, and undid the chain. A hesitant hand placed itself on the doorknob, and turned the metal object until it clicked. Outside, Sherlock heard it, the little sound that made his eyes flash open and turn around. She slowly opened the door, all of her becoming visible to him. Watching as he studied her, she found it difficult to meet his eyes when he finished, and decided that the ground deserved her attention more than he did. The weakness he made her feel was unendurable. Because she loved him, she hated him. Irene Adler wasn’t the type of woman to love. She was The Woman to love. She was the subject, never the predicate. The loved, not the lover.

His voice broke the silence between them.

“Irene…” His voice took on more sorrowful shock than accusation.

Irene looked up to Sherlock, daring to meet his eyes. She stood in silence, as he looked over her again. It felt good, to be acknowledged by him, to cause a second thought in that brilliant and busy mind of his. How pathetic mocked a voice in the back of her head. And she began to do the very thing that would automatically give every drop of power to him. She began to lament, in front of him, regretting the wine because surely that’s what was causing this. It was only one tear down her cheek, at first. Then one on each side. Then three. And then they all started colliding, not distinguishable from one another or able to be counted. No sound left her lips, but the look in her eyes said enough. Irene willed them to stay put, locked with his, forcing him to see what he did to her. Not that he would care, of course. Self-immolation, this is what it feel like, she supposed. Sacrificing herself-or in this case her pride-for her cause to be known. 

“I could ask the same of you,” She finally spoke, apathetically.

“May I?” He looked over her shoulder and her statement, into the space of her foyer, and met her eye again. She was surprised he even asked.

Irene stepped aside, just enough for him to enter. She closed the door behind her, carefully locking it, chaining it, lingering with her back to him for as long as she could wondering why she let him in and knowing that she knew the answer to her own question.

“I didn’t think-“

“There’s a first,” she spat.

Clenching his jaw, he tried again. “I never intended to hurt you.”

“Well you did a terrific fucking job at it, Sherlock,” Her voice was no louder than his, but hers made more of an impact. The hiss through her teeth was meant to be a bullet shot straight at his heart.

“I know.” He was blunt, but she wasn’t expecting anything else.

“Is there anything you don’t know?” She bit back, still not able to face him.

“I don’t know why you’re acting in this way towards me.” He sounded bitter and she detected something else… hurt. This was new. She could play with hurt.

“What?” She taunted, this new advantage giving her more confidence, enough to turn around and face him. “The great Sherlock Holmes doesn’t know something?” Irene strutted away from him, regretting looking him in the eyes. “How does it feel? Oh, wait,” She laughed, one mixed with sadness and anger and fear. Irene turned back to face him.

“You don’t know. You’re a god on Earth!” She mocked and screamed, tears streaming down her face. “You are a fucking god! You look down on the world that you’ve created and manipulated to your own liking, but you don’t live in it. You don’t understand or feel what people living in your world do. You can’t. You’re so fucking above it, you can’t even imagine it. You’ve made this, and can’t even see the disaster it has become.” She began to walk away from him, but she stumbled on her heel, holding her arms out at each side trying to regain her balance. He made his way to her, and Irene didn’t know how he did so that quickly, but right now it didn’t matter. Sherlock attempted to help her and reached to grab her arm but she pulled away.

“Don’t you dare touch me!” She sauntered away from him, further into her home. Somewhere in her trek from the front room to the stairwell, she had removed a single shoe and it was still in her hand, but she had no recollection of this. Unbeknownst to Irene, he trailed behind her. She leaned against the railing, and was starting to remove the other shoe when he made the mistake of speaking.

“Irene-“

Half-heartedly, she threw the shoe in his direction. Despite her alcohol consumption, she still had decent aim. Sherlock ducked, the dangerous piece of footwear missing his head by a few inches if you generously rounded up.

“Irene, how much have you had to drink tonight?”

“Not enough,” she sarcastically chuckled, heading up the stairs. “Just see yourself out, I know that you’re competent enough to do that.” Irene dropped the shoe at the foot of the staircase, she’d get it tomorrow. Right now, though, her priority was getting away from Sherlock Holmes.

“I’m not leaving you when there’s a good chance that there’s more alcohol running through your veins than blood.” Sherlock walked up to her, and she tried making it up the stairs. Tried. Irene didn’t even make it half way before he was there, holding her arms, preventing her from moving any further. And she put up a fight that would’ve been good, if she could’ve seen straight or moved fast enough. To no avail, her arms pulled away from his grasp, and her only reward was a tighter hold. Squirming led to Sherlock pulling her closer, her fists banging at his arms to let her go; nails scratching at his hands to get him to retreat; screaming expletives and empty threats to his life. The man was unrelenting. Dizziness set in, and soon her actions against him became weaker and useless. Exhaustion overcame her, and her limbs began to ache. Irene gave up the fight, and she wasn’t sure whether knowing she let him win or his tight grip on her hurt more. She slumped down, relaxing the muscles in her arms and legs, causing her to begin to slide out of his arms. Sherlock held her up, and sensed that she wasn’t moving from their current spot. He picked her up, and she didn’t have enough energy to fight back. Her arms automatically wrapped around his neck, causing him to tense up slightly as he carried her up the stairs and into her room. He laid her down on her bed and the whole time, she was staring at him with empty eyes. 

“I’ll be downstairs if you need anything. Just shout, you’re good at that.” Sherlock began to walk away from the woman lying in front of him, near passed out and looking small on the bed. But she grabbed his hand before he put too much distance between her and him. She almost asked why he was staying, but by the look of him, she guessed that he had nowhere else to go. She was right.

“Starting to regret the drinking binge you indulged in tonight?” He looked at her, puzzled, but didn’t pull away. When she squeezed his hand tighter and pulled him close to her, he complied and leaned to hear her.

Her words came out slurred; the alcohol had taken full effect now.

“You left me and never looked back and I hated you for it. But now you’re back, Sherlock. What am I supposed to do? Act like nothing happened? You can’t expect that. You weren’t the only one who fell that day. I hate you for it. Do you understand, Sherlock?”

**Author's Note:**

> This first chapter was small, I'm aware, but the next ones will be lengthier, rest assured. I hope the first chapter sparked some intrigue, and that you elect to stay for the following chapters. Thank you for reading! x


End file.
